


Making an Impression

by desperado



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Desperation, M/M, Omorashi, Potential squick, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desperado/pseuds/desperado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles finds himself desperate to piss during a recruiting visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making an Impression

**Author's Note:**

> As should be apparent from the tags and summary, this is a fic about pee. If that grosses you out, I'd recommend skipping it!

They had assumed, upon learning of the very posh address of the latest mutant they were attempting to recruit, that Charles’s presence at the party could be nothing but an asset.

Now, as Charles strains to keep a pleasant smile on his face as the mutant’s mother rambles on, he doubts that conclusion. Erik wouldn’t hesitate to break off the conversation if he had a reason, and Charles certainly has a reason.

He isn’t sure he’s ever had to piss quite so badly before.

Charles takes another simulated sip of the cocktail in his hand, knowing that if he finishes it, a waiter will appear with another, and that was how he got into his present situation. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and back again, hoping his discomfort isn’t obvious. Mrs. Abernathy doesn’t seem to notice, but she is so absorbed in her own stream of talk that Charles is sure she would failure to notice any number of things.

The need spikes, and Charles’s grip on the highball glass tightens. It reaches another agonizing peak before dropping off again to a level he can almost bear. 

Would it be so wrong to use his powers to just shut the woman up, end the conversation now? As unbearably tempting as the idea is, he pushes it from his mind. She is clearly the master of the house, and her approval is what will determine whether the shy boy who can see though walls will be coming with them or not.

Of course, he imagines pissing himself won’t make a terribly good impression, either.

He reaches out mentally, scanning for Erik without a plan, just hoping that Erik can somehow rescue him from his predicament.

Relief surges through him when Erik appears behind the woman’s shoulder and approaches, but the sensation is a little too good. Charles tenses reflexively, too close to being out of control.

“Erik!” he exclaims, overly animated, ushering a suspicious Erik into the conversation. “Mrs. Abernathy was just remarking that – ” A shiver shooting through his body interrupts him. He clenches everything he can but it isn’t enough. A tiny spurt escapes, the damp patch impossibly warm against the tip of his penis, making the urge to let go all the more unbearable.

Desperate times, desperate measures and all that – he throws the suggestion towards the woman that the conversation ended naturally and hurries away, as fast as he can manage without jostling his aching bladder into further indiscretion.

He’d half-intended to distract Erik with the halfhearted mental influence too, but apparently it didn’t work – Erik hurries after him, and drops a big hand onto his shoulder. It wasn’t a surprise, but it sends an uncomfortable jolt through him anyway, and Charles has to struggle against the urge to clutch himself.

“Charles – ” Erik begins, his voice concerned.

“Not now, Erik,” Charles stammers, his voice high and almost giddy with distraction. He stumbles as he turns away, letting out a nearly hysterical giggle of panic as the burn in his abdomen intensified and another hot spurt shoots into his trousers.

They’re at the edge of the ballroom now, and with his back to the crowd of the room, Charles allows himself a quick squeeze of his cock, but no more – he doesn’t want to find himself with nothing but his hand between himself and disaster. 

The throbbing in his bladder makes his stride stiff and intolerably slow as he makes his way into the hallway. He has no idea where to find the toilet in the mansion, but a destination of ‘anywhere but here’ will do for now. He has to get away from the crowd, if – 

He doesn’t let himself finish the thought, but the possibility of not making it refuses to leave his mind. The need pulses, the small damp patch on his trousers rubbing in a way that is almost tempting. The thought of just letting go is nearly overwhelming. Another short spurt goes into his trousers, his muscles twitching with the tension of holding on, and Charles stops in his tracks, teetering on the edge of losing control entirely. 

Lost in his desperation, Charles has ignored Erik’s footsteps behind him, but now Erik seizes his elbow firmly, turning Charles so he can look into his flushed, miserable face. “Charles, what’s wrong? Has someone done something to you? Tell me.” 

The _urgency_ in Erik’s voice is so unintentionally apropos that a helpless, breathy chuckle escapes Charles, and, well – so does a steady stream of piss, soaking the crotch of his trousers to the right of his fly. He hunches over, hands flying to his crotch, tightening every muscle he can, but it keeps flowing, the dark material of his trousers glistening with fresh wetness. 

It almost burns, clenching so hard to overcome this process already in motion. With a small, helpless groan he stops trying. The sensation as the stream gushes stronger makes him prickle with something close to pleasure.

He jerks his head up when he realizes Erik is still hovering over him. Erik’s expression is as close to astonishment as Charles has ever seen, his expressive brows high and his lips slightly parted as he watches Charles piss himself.

Charles turns away, feeling his face grow even hotter than it already was. Piss is still streaming into his trousers. His hands tremble as he moves them away from his crotch, his palms hot and wet. The warmth is seeping down past his knees, dribbles soaking into his socks.

An eternity later, when his trousers are wet to the ankles and there’s a puddle soaking into the carpet beneath his feet, it finally, finally stops, and Charles dares to look up again. Erik’s mouth is set, a hard line, but his eyes are alight and his nostrils flared. Feeling almost dizzy, Charles manages a smile. “I think perhaps we should go.” His voice comes out steadier than he had expected.

“I’ll go give Mrs. Abernathy our regrets,” Erik says hoarsely, his eyes still locked on Charles. Charles examines the damage, wiping his wet hands on the outside of his thighs – no reason not to, at this point. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Erik keeps looking back over his shoulder at Charles.

Though Charles would find it difficult to put a name to it, he’s certain that it is not disgust in Erik’s eyes.


End file.
